


Not a Machine

by ladykarasu



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And stubborn, BAMF John, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, If Sherlock would just listen they wouldn't get into half of these messes, John really is very loyal, Not quite as sad as I'd expected, Sherlock has got a lot of adjusting ahead of him, Which is a good thing all things considered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykarasu/pseuds/ladykarasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It started with the invasion.  That sounded like a bad sci-fi opener, true, but it made the statement no less accurate. </i>
</p><p>Sherlock has a tendency to wander, fall, or stride into dangerous situations.  Conveniently, John has always gotten there in time to mitigate the results, before.  This time, he's a little too late.  Good thing he's such a stubborn man.</p><p>Life gets a little more interesting once he gets Sherlock back, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Machine

**Author's Note:**

> So, I saw [this post](http://ineffableboyfriends.tumblr.com/post/35161272033/yes-you-are-sherlock), and my heart sort of went 'Nope!', but my muse had other ideas, and I made the mistake of mentioning said other ideas to [Random_Nexus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus). I was then half enabled and half (companionably) bullied into writing it up and posting. *snicker* Admittedly, I didn't fight _too_ hard.
> 
> Thanks to **ineffableboyfriends** for permission to use your art, and thanks to **Random_Nexus** for the... _motivation_ to write this, and the lookover to make sure I didn't sound like too much of an idiot when posting. ^_^

Inspired by this art:

  
Used with permission: [See ineffableboyfriends's original post, here.](http://ineffableboyfriends.tumblr.com/post/35161272033/yes-you-are-sherlock)

* * *

It started with the invasion. That sounded like a bad sci-fi opener, true, but it made the statement no less accurate. 

They got separated, and Sherlock was taken (because he can’t be bothered to _stay put_ when John says to; because he’s a genius, and they _need_ geniuses). John didn’t stop searching, regardless of the hindrances, the warnings, or the attempts to stop him (nor did he stop making a very big impact on the supposedly superior race, racking up quite an impressive tale of destruction in his wake, and the daleks learned to fear a human doctor damn near as much as a lone timelord, oncoming storm or not, because they _took his friend_ ) until he finally found Sherlock, but… 

Well.

It was too late to really save him. To save all of him.

John wouldn’t leave him, though – it was still Sherlock – it _was_ , and didn’t he always say his body was just transport? _‘It’s about the brain, John’_ – but Sherlock wasn’t so sure about that, himself, now; once the reality of it was recognized and accepted (because Sherlock had never been one to lie to himself, however pretty the lie, however harsh the truth). He could still think, still reason, was still _brilliant_ , but he was missing half his senses, was so restricted into that damnable metal body – (‘The _work_ , John! I can’t do the _work_! I can’t _sense_ half the evidence, now, and I’ll trample it far easier than even the imbeciles at the MET manage on a bad day’.) 

He wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t let Sherlock close in on himself – got him out of the facility, and damn UNIT, anyway; just because Sherlock’s got a bit of a handicap, now, that didn’t mean they could take him, or dissect him or ‘neutralize him’ (which was much the same, either way) because he was a dalek now, and they’re dangerous, whatever they were before - or put him to work in their labs – John wouldn’t _have_ it. So he smuggled Sherlock out – which was a lot harder than it looked, he assured Sherlock, and he could bloody well cooperate and make John’s life easier, thankyouverymuch – and so yeah, maybe they couldn’t go back to 221b, not yet, not until Mycroft could be convinced to pull the right strings, and they could be convinced Mycroft was actually on the level with them – and maybe they couldn’t work openly with the MET anymore, but they could still take cases remotely, digitally, bounced off a few servers. It wasn’t perfect, but it almost started to feel normal.

That was, until one day a grinding sort of screech dropped a blue box in their new(ish) sitting room, and John took the stance that the Doctor had _better back the hell off_ , or he was going to find out very quickly what his next regeneration was like.

It took a lot of threatening, a bit of cajoling and physically blocking his access to Sherlock in a very obvious human-shield-with-a-gun sort of way, but the Doctor did, actually, back off, with the warning that he’d be watching. John had his own warning – anything happens to Sherlock, now, and he’d better watch his back, because John’s a good enough shot to get both hearts. The truce was tenuous, but, coincidentally, the heat that had been on up till then suddenly stopped; they weren’t sure if it was a result of that visit or if Mycroft finally came through, or maybe a bit of both. Either way, that made it easier for them to start, slowly, secretly, getting properly back to work. Sort of. No one knew what happened to Sherlock, and he obviously couldn’t be seen in public, now. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson eventually found out, both out of a tenacious sense of concern that finally got through to the boys (though Mrs. Hudson’s might have come with a bit more maternal-flavored guilt). But they were getting by, and Sherlock didn’t feel quite like his mind was tearing itself apart anymore with the stagnation of having no puzzles to focus on. It wasn’t ideal, far from it, but it was _working_.

Once relative safety and the necessities of life (food, shelter, cases to keep Sherlock from driving himself mad) were secured, however, it allowed for other issues to head the queue.

Sherlock didn’t realize, at the beginning, how much he’d miss touch. (There hadn’t been time or security enough to allow the luxury of such thoughts.) Of all the senses, of everything he lost, at the start, that seemed the least of his troubles; the tactile was useful, but could be discerned in other ways – the loss of it could be compensated for, for the work - but… he hadn’t realized how often John would steady him, would act as a touchstone through the simple expedient of a hand on the back, or a bump of the shoulders, and…

John didn’t stop touching, not after they sorted things out, found their equilibrium and Sherlock could better control the body he was in; it wasn’t the same, not anything like as calming or… he hesitated to think, even in the privacy of his brain, the word, ‘comforting’… but it was something – a proof that John was still John, and he still looked at Sherlock the same; well, not _quite_ the same, but not like some monster – never that - _had_ never done that, even before, when it was a tongue-in-cheek insult, rather than the truth.

There was something strange, in the way he looked at him lately, though, and one day John just huffed a sigh – weary, exhausted – and walked up to Sherlock, Sherlock’s armour, throwing his arms around the remnants of the man, muttering something soft and unintelligible and soothing. He was amazingly perceptive – Sherlock forgets, sometimes, just how much, how far ahead of the pack John is, compared to ordinary people – but the day he tells Sherlock to ‘open up, already’, it takes _him_ a moment to realize they’re not talking about _feelings_ or some other such nonsense. Not directly, anyway. There was hesitation, and gentle, snarky ribbing to counter it – ‘Listen, save me the trouble of finding a can-opener, yeah?’ ‘What, you think I’m going to hurt you now, after going to all this trouble to keep you safe? Jesus, Sherlock, you really _are_ out of touch…’ – it was the implication that his reason might be a lack of trust that finally forced Sherlock’s hand. Well, not forced, really – he knew John knew he’d see the manipulation in the words, could ignore it if he wanted, but that he chose this tactic was telling enough, and Sherlock chose to comply, thinking all the while it was a bad, bad idea. The frontplate swung away, and what was left of Sherlock - what had remained of him after… well, after - brain-matter and the spliced-DNA joke of a body (little more than wriggling, ineffective tentacles) were bared to open air for the first time in months, the first time since John came for him. There was only a slight hesitation, and he knew it wasn’t disgust, though there was anger and frustration in it; not directed at Sherlock – it took him years to recognize the difference, as he’d never had cause to, before John – and John reached out, a careful, steady hand brushing against the length of what evolution might once have meant to be an arm or a leg, but was useless as either and didn’t bear quantifying now.

The initial contact was so startling, so _foreign_ , now, that Sherlock – the Sherlock that is – flinched back, but there were no obvious signs of pain, so John didn’t retreat, pressed on, continued a soft, rhythmic stroke with the back of his knuckles, and Sherlock, abruptly, relaxed. He hadn’t realized, at first, how much he missed touch; frustration doubled then, once he did, once he realized _why_ , because he never thought he’d have it again (lost it before he’d fully recognized the value of it). Of every other variable in the universe, every puzzle and quantifiable mystery, John would, he realized anew, never cease to amaze him; in his perception and his compassion. The former of which was often due to his association and understanding of _Sherlock_ \- a novelty even now – and the latter in his unprecedented and still surprising handling of him. 

“Just don’t mention it to anyone, yeah?” John murmured after a few minutes, seemingly completely comfortable with his proximity, with his present occupation. “Enough rumours out there, already, without adding to them.” The words alone could be taken in any number of ways, but his tone was warmly wry, a faint, but present grin pulling crookedly at his lips and something like accomplishment in his eyes.

Things got a little better, after that.


End file.
